


the very thought of you

by writevale



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Masturbation, Public Masturbation, Sexual Content, Trans Male Character, Trans!Martin, at least have the decency to put some trousers on, fantasies, good lord man, if you're going to be staying in the archives, imagined sex-neutral/postive ace character, it's a pwp, mag023, martin/jon's desk, top quality s1 crushing on the head archivist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: The door to Jon's office opens with a creak. Stepping through feels forbidden, somehow, but deliciously so. It's so still inside. Pristine, despite the stacks of messy paper and angry post-it notes on Jon's desk. Martin doesn't turn the light on.It's not weird,He assures himself, pushing his glasses up his nose,I'm just seeing if there's any work I can start on. He can't be annoyed at me for trying to find work to do.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 19
Kudos: 244





	the very thought of you

**Author's Note:**

> the very thought of you  
> has my legs spread apart  
> like an easel with a canvas  
> begging for art  
> \- rupi kaur

Martin wakes in pieces. First, the feeling of the sheets twisted around his feet. Which is strange, because he has a quilt. Second, the smell of stale air, the musk of paper gone brown and wrinkled. Third, the scratch of his cheek against a spongy cushion. The re-purposed seat of an office chair that had broken the other week. He comes around fully, finally, with a sigh. He knows where he is. 

There's no window in the sealed room he'd been permitted to sleep in while his flat is potentially being held hostage by worms so he scrabbles at the desk to his right for the cheap, plastic brick phone he'd had to purchase to replace his stolen one. It's only just gone 5am. A huffed groan ruffles the papers on the desk. He hadn't expected it to be easy to sleep in a discarded office at the Institute, but he had hoped that he'd stop waking up so early after the first week or so. _No such luck_. 

He rubs his eyes, caught in that awkward place that's not wide awake but also not tired enough to sleep. The room comes into focus as he fumbles for his glasses and puts them on. 

_Well_ , he thinks with a bitter smile, _the early bird gets the worm_. 

The light coming through the weather-dirtied windows is just enough that he doesn't need to use his torch on the way back from the toilets. He'd dared to brave the cold corridors in just his boxers. There was no chance that he'd bump into a colleague at this time and he hoped that the cold air might wake him up a little. He scratches the pale skin between his shoulder blades as he yawns. His colleagues (Tim, in particular) love to complain about the state of the Archive corridors, always draughty and freezing in winter then, impossibly, stifling in summer. But Martin thinks they have a certain academic beauty that renders them charming despite their drawbacks. Perhaps, it's just that the morning light is kinder and no-one else is around to see it. 

_Speaking of a certain academic beauty_ , Martin allows himself another grim twitch of his lips as he passes the door to Jon's office. He knows, deep down, that his crush on Jon is hopeless. But all the ways Jon frustrates him are still the best thing about the job. And Martin is in dire need of reminders about why he wants to be an Archival Assistant right now. He takes two more steps, bare feet quiet on the varnished floor, before stopping in his tracks. _I could_ , the thought comes insidiously, _I could just see if he's left anything I could help with. While I'm up_. 

The door to Jon's office opens with a creak. Stepping through feels forbidden, somehow, but deliciously so. It's so still inside. Pristine, despite the stacks of messy paper and angry post-it notes on Jon's desk. Martin doesn't turn the light on. His heart thuds and it's like stepping onto a film set, or into the still, still world inside a undisturbed snow-globe. _It's not weird_ , Martin assures himself, pushing his glasses up his nose, _I'm just seeing if there's any work I can start on. He can't be annoyed at me for trying to find work to do._

He moves the short distance to Jon's desk like a thief. The only window in the room is mostly obscured by a tall, messy bookshelf, but enough of the weak, morning light seeps through for Martin to be able to read the notes on Jon's desk. He picks up a few sheets, puts them down with a sigh. There's nothing there that Jon would want him helping with. In fact, he's sure that if he tried to help he'd actively be reprimanded for it. It's a constant source of frustration, to constantly try his best with his research, only to meet the same dead ends as everyone else. And to then be treated like a complete idiot for doing so. 

It would be worse if Jon didn't look quite so attractive with that little crease of annoyance between his eyebrows.

The desk is a convenient height. When Martin leans forwards to reach for another note, his crotch bumps gently into the corner of it and it's just the easiest thing in the world to let it rest there, to press against the corner of Jon's desk as though it were a warm, naked thigh. The varnished wood is cool through the thin cotton of his boxers and he lets his mind wander away from the boring note he's reading to the growing heat between his thighs. 

That's one of the problems about living in the Institute. He's _constantly_ surrounded by reminders of Jon. And there's nowhere it's really acceptable to masturbate. 

There's a whooshing, staticky sound that must be blood in his ears. It swells and quiets with each of the rapid thumps he can feel through his ribcage. Under the guise of putting the note back down in its spot on the far side of the desk, he rocks his hips experimentally on the smooth surface of the desk. His boxers bunch up in just the right way against his clit and he breathes out quickly, the whistling sound loud over the roar of his blood. He tries it again, shuffling his feet around each side of the desk so he can adjust the angle. _This is bad._ He thinks. That hot, liquid feeling pools in his groin as he presses down into the unyielding surface of the desk again and again. It's - it's - 

Jon's empty chair seems to taunt him. The warped and ghostly reflection of his mostly naked body writhes in the chrome of the frame. He considers letting the dam of his self-disgust break but holds it back. People do worse things in offices. He could stop at any point. If he looks closely, he can see the slightly worn patches in the leather of Jon's seat from years of use, can see the slight dip in the right arm-rest where he digs in his elbow when he's resting his head on his hand and brooding. He looks good like that. Brooding. 

Martin grinds down onto his boss's desk and can't help but imagine what it would be like if that chair was filled. Jon would sit there, in whatever band t-shirt and tight trouser combination he's flaunting the dress code with that day, leaning back faux-casually, his right elbow wedged in that dip on the arm rest as he chews nervously at his thumb nail, his ankle crossed over the other knee, foot jigging. And his eyes, yes, his eyes would be fixed on Martin. He imagines that they would be dark with curiosity. _Fuck it, the tape recorder might even be running._

Jon would stare until Martin found the confidence to ask if he liked what he was seeing and the man would lick his lips quickly, barely a flash of his tongue, leaving them shiny and pink. And the bastard would shrug nonchalantly. But he'd be faking it. Because, fair enough, watching the folds in Martin's stomach appear and disappear as his assistant fucked his desk might not be his cup of tea. But he'd be _interested_ , even just in the purest, most academic sense. He'd absolutely have to know what was going to happen next, even if it didn't cause a stir in his trousers. The thought of Jon caring that Martin was enjoying himself - The thought of Jon actively wanting Martin to come apart under his steely gaze sends a shiver down Martin's spine that has nothing to do with the chill of the office and his current state of undress. 

The fabric of Jon's t-shirt would be thick and rough under Martin's fingers as he grips it in a fist, using that handhold to wheel Jon's chair and its occupant closer to the desk. Jon's eyes would widen comically, just for a second, as he is jolted forwards and something a lot like love would bloom in Martin's chest. Jon's hand would be warm as it slides upwards to encircle Martin's wrist, honey-brown skin a gorgeous contrast against Martin's, which is fair, sunburn-prone and freckled. Jon would tug gently to encourage Martin to release his tight grip on the side of the desk, where his hands currently rest, and then let go. For all his previous cockiness, he'd look something like a shy maiden, communicating what he wants with his eyes because that gorgeous voice can't find the words for it. Martin would cup Jon's jaw so gently, hips still rocking against the desk. He'd trace Jon's lips with the pad of his thumb. 

He does it to himself now, feels his own shuddery breath against the digit as his mouth falls open. Just as Jon's would. He slips a finger into the wet, hot space of his mouth and _sucks_. He groans around it, the rhythm of his hips faltering slightly as he imagines how Jon would gaze up at him, cheeks hollowed, a trace of amusement curling around the edges of his wide-eyed look. He starts to move his hips in slow, tight circles and _fuck_ , in combination with the mental image of the slow flush that spreads up Jon's neck - it's so good. But not quite good enough. His finger falls out of his mouth with a _pop_. 

Reverie broken, Jon's chair is still invitingly empty. He bites his lip and pushes up his glasses. _This is bad_ , he reminds himself as he shuffles back from the corner of the desk and sits down delicately. His hand is cold as his slides it under the elastic of his boxers. He's so wet. He shuffles so that his elbow lines up with the dip in the chair. _This is bad._

In another situation - another life, perhaps - this could be a massive fuck you to an arsehole of a boss. You want to be condescending and undervalue me all the time? Fine. I'll wank in your chair and you can sit there every day and never know. Except, in this situation - this ridiculous life of Martin's - it's more of a _fuck me. Please._

A low hum catches in the back of his throat as he slips his finger through the wetness at his entrance and drags it back up to circle his clit. He looks up at the messy papers, runs his eyes across the stacks of files and books on the shelves. It's disgusting, really, what he's doing. But there's something about sitting where Jon sits, taking in his view. It's . . . something. 

'Fuck.' Martin pants into the quiet of the Archives as he skirts dangerously close to orgasm. His fingers hover millimetres from his clit. He has to decide: come now, or draw it out a bit longer. See how far he can push himself until he falls apart. 

He imagines Jon, standing between his spread thighs and leaning back against his desk. Something wry and knowing flutters at the edge of his smile even as he runs his hand through that long hair, a nervous tic. _I want to see it, Martin._ He'd say, voice low and raspy like that time he had a cold and Martin couldn't concentrate for a week. _Show me_. 

Jon's chair is not build for someone to shake though an orgasm in it. The hinges squeak, covering the high-pitched gasp of a name that spills from Martin's mouth as his hips buck and his eyes squeeze shut tight behind his glasses. It rips through him and he curls in on himself, leaning forward to clutch the edge of Jon's desk for something to anchor himself against the pleasure that borders too close to too much. 

For the second time that morning, he comes back to himself bit by bit. The echo of the laughter he can't keep in chases him all the way back to his cot. 

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to post this anonymously because it's literally just porn. But then I wrote it and I like bits of it. So, I guess it's mine. 
> 
> I bet poor Martin had the shock of his life the next time he snuck into Jon's office and found him sitting there. Hooo boy.


End file.
